MISCHIEF MAKERS.

Oh, could there in this world be found
Some little spot of happy ground,
Where village pleasures might go round,
Without the village tattling!

How doubly blest that place would be,
Where all might dwell in liberty,
Free from the bitter misery

Of gossips' endless prattling.

If such a spot were really known,
Dame Peace might claim it as her own,
And in it she might fix her throne,
Forever and forever;

There, like a queen, might reign and live,
While every one would soon forgive
The little slights they might receive
And be offended never.

'Tis mischief-makers that remove
Far from our hearts the warmth of love,
And lead us all to disapprove

What gives another pleasure.

They seem to take one's part, but when They've heard our cares, unkindly then They soon retail them all again,

Mixed with their poisonous measure.
And then they've such a cunning way
Of telling ill-meant tales; they say,
Don't mention what I've said, I pray,
I would not tell another;-"
Straight to your neighbor's house they go,
Narrating everything they know;
And break the peace of high and low,
Wife, husband, friend, and brother.

Oh, that the mischief-making crew
Were all reduced to one or two,
And they were painted red or blue,

That every one might know them!

Then would our villagers forget
To rage and quarrel, fume and fret,
Or fall into an angry pet,

With things so much below them.

For 'tis a sad, degrading part,

To make another's bosom smart,
And plant a dagger in the heart

We ought to love and cherish.
Then let us evermore be found
In quietness with all around,

While friendship, joy, and peace abound,
And angry feelings perish!

THE LAST MILE-STONES.

PEARL RIVERS

Sixty years through shine and shadow,-
Sixty years, my gentle wife,

You and I have walked together
Down the rugged road of life.
From the hills of spring we started,
And through all the summer land,
And the fruitful autumn country,
We have journeyed hand in hand.

We have borne the heat and burden,
Toiling painfully and slow;
We have gathered in our harvest
With rejoicing long ago.

Leave the uplands for our children,
They are strong to sow and reap;
Through the quiet winter lowlands
Now our level way we keep.

"Tis a dreary country, darling,
You and I are passing through;
But the road lies straight before us,
And the miles are short and few ;
No more dangers to encounter,

No more hills to climb, true friend;
Nothing now but simple walking,
Till we reach our journey's end.

We have had our time of gladness;
'Twas a proud and happy day-
Ah! the proudest of our journey-
When we felt that we could say
Of the children God had given,
Looking fondly on the ten,

"Lovely women are our daughters,
And our sons are noble men!"

We have had our time of sorrow,
And our time of anxious fears,
When we could not see the mile-stones
Through the blindness of our tears.
In the sunny summer country,
Far behind us, little May,

Then darling Willie, too, grew weary,
And we left them on the way.

Are you looking backward, mother,
That you stumble in the snow?
I am still your guide and staff, dear,
Lean your weight upon me, so.
Now our road is growing narrow,
And--what is it, wife, you say?
Yes! I know your eyes are dim, dear,
But we have not lost the way.

Cheer thee! cheer thee! faithful-hearted!

Just a little way before

Lies the great Eternal City

Of the King that we adore.

I can see the shining spires;

And the King,—the King, my dear!
We have served him long and humbly,
He will bless us, do not fear!

Ah! the snow falls fast and heavy;
How you shiver with the cold!

Let me wrap your mantle closer,

And my arm around you fold.
We are weak and faint and weary,
And the sun's low in the west,

We have reached the gates, my darling,
Let us tarry here and rest.

DEAF AS A POST.

In the procession that followed good Deacon Jones to the grave, last summer, Rev. Mr. Sampler, the new clergyman of Easttown, found himself in the same carriage with an elderly man whom he had never met be

fore. They rode in grave silence for a few moments, when the clergyman endeavored to improve the occasion by serious conversation.

"This is a solemn duty in which we are engaged, my friend,” he said.

'Hey? what do you say, sir?" the old man returned. "Can't you speak louder? I'm hard of hearin'."

"I was remarking," shouted the clergyman, "that this is a solemn road we are traveling to-day."

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Sandy road! You don't call this 'ere sandy, do ye? Guess you ain't been down to the south deestric.

There's

a stretch of road on the old pike that beats all I ever see for hard travelin'. Only a week before Deacon Jones was tuk sick, I met him drivin' his ox-team along there, and the sand was very nigh up to the hubs of the wheels. The deacon used to get dretful riled 'bout that piece of road, and Easttown does go ahead of all creation for sand."

The young clergyman looked blank at the unexpected turn given to his remark; but quickly recovering himself and raising his voice to its highest pitch, he resumed the conversation.

"Our friend has done with all the discomforts of earth," he said, solemnly. "A small spot of ground will soon cover his poor senseless clay."

"Did you say clay, sir?" cried the old man, eagerly. "Tain't nigh so good to cover sand with as medder loam. Sez I to Mr. Brewer, last town-meetin' day, 'If you'd cart on a few dozen loads, there's acres of it on the river bank,' sez I, 'you'd make as pretty a piece of road as there is in Har'ford county.' But we are slow folks in Easttown, sir."

It was perhaps fortunate for the clergyman at that moment that the smell of new made hay from a neighboring field suggested a fresh train of thought.

"Look," said he, with a graceful wave of the hand, "what an emblem of the brevity of human life! As the grass of the field, so man flourisheth, and to-morrow he is cut down."

"I don't calculate to cut mine till next week," said his companion. "You mus'n't cut grass too 'arly; and then again, you mus❜n't cut it too late."

"My friend," shrieked the clergyman, in a last desperate attempt to make himself understood, "this is no place for vain conversation. We are approaching the narrow house appointed for all the living."

They were entering the graveyard, but the old man stretched his neck from the carriage window in the opposite direction.

"Do you mean Squire Hubbard's over yonder? "Tis rather narrer. They build all them new-fangled houses that way now-a-days. To my mind they ain't nigh so handsome nor so handy as the old-fashioned square ones with a broad entry runnin' clear through to the back door. Well, this is the getting-out place, ain't it? Much obleeged to ye, parson, for your entertaining remarks.”

THE LAST MAN.-THOMAS CAMPBELL.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of time!

I saw the last of human mold
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan;
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man.

Some had expired in fight,-the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands,

In plague and famine some.
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!